The Thousand Year Seal
by JulieGee
Summary: Arthur sends Merlin a *very* personal letter. What does it say? The world waits eagerly!


The Thousand Year Seal

Arthur had waited in his room for hours, pacing back and forth. Merlin should have discovered his present by now. He heard footsteps coming down the hall. The door to his room opened, and he smiled. There hadn't been a knock first.

Merlin walked it, holding the letter, looking confused. Arthur's face fell. He hadn't liked it after all.

His manservant walked up to him, the letter in his hand. "Arthur, it's really kinky, and kinda hot, but why are you giving me the dungeon under that old, leaky castle?"

Arthur's eyes opened wide. "How do you know about that? NO ONE is supposed to know about that. It's rumored the courier who opened the document by mistake didn't live long enough to tell it's contents to anyone! That's why there's a thousand year seal on it, for God's sake!"

Merlin studied the letter. "All it says is 'to Merlin' on the front. On the back you wrote, enjoy the gift. It doesn't say anything about a thousand years. Just your regular seal."

Arthur snatched the letter out of his hand and looked at it closely. His eyes widened. He looked at the dusty seal on his desk. He had never used the thousand year one before. Beside it sat his personal seal. He must have reversed them, stressed by the contents of both letters.

"Oh, dear God, NO!" he yelled before leaping over the table and sprinting down the hall.

He reached the library as the librarian was sealing a box. "Give that to me!" yelled Arthur.

The librarian looked at him in shock. "No!" he said.

"NO? How DARE you tell me NO!" He reached for the box.

The librarian snatched it away, locking it behind his desk. "The thousand year seal is precious. Open one document stamped with it, and all the others are called into question. You're not getting this box. Not if you ask your father. Not if you command it when you're King, although I'm sure you'll be wise enough by then that you'll never consider violating it."

Arthur turned red. The librarian was right, of course. Then he relaxed. Ah well. A thousand years was a very long time. He'd be dead, and the letter probably wouldn't survive anyway. He left the library and walked back to his room, planning to replace Merlin's potentially lethal letter with another copy of his gift as quickly as possible.

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Lightning flashed, illuminating the desk even through the candlelight. The Royal Librarian sat behind it, academics and nobles from around the world surrounding him to witness the stunning discovery, to witness a history all had thought lost beyond recovery.

Six years ago, an old, yellowing document with a red wax seal was discovered in a monastery, hidden for years among financial records so boring no one had opened them in centuries.

The document was a letter from the Crown Prince of Camelot, Arthur himself. It was addressed, unbelievably, to Merlin. Yes, THE Merlin. The letter had passed all the tests. It was old enough to be genuine. The academic world had reeled under the shock. The men thought only legend had actually lived.

Arthur, the man who would become the greatest King the world had ever known, perhaps would ever know, had done something beyond comprehension. He had placed a thousand year seal on the document, ensuring it's privacy for a millennium. In the history of correspondence, nothing similar had ever been done. The world waited to know it's contents with bated breath.

The librarian had been approaching his death at the time of the discovery. The physician had given him a few months, perhaps a year. And then, the letter. For the past six years, the librarian had clung to life through willpower alone, waiting for the day when he could open it.

His goal had been simple. Live long enough to break the seal, and then long enough to give the letter the attention it deserved. It might very well be the most important document England had ever possessed, and it deserved his personal study for as long as was necessary.

He removed the letter from a special container, designed by scientists, constructed by goldsmiths. It had taken two years to build. All hoped it would preserve the document for study by future generations.

At the stroke of midnight, he snapped the seal. The sound echoed around the library. The academics and nobles leaned forward. The carefully folded letter was now open. The librarian shooed them away. Five experts in ancient dialects waited at Oxford, prepared to translate the contents with complete accuracy. However, the librarian knew enough to translate for those present.

He carefully unfolded the letter, blowing centuries of dust off the yellow page. He began to read, the silence absolute.

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Dear Merlin,

I know it's not a great present, but I thought I'd write you a poem. Well, I was going to ask Morgana to write it, but her poem's stupid. I'll think I'll do it myself. I hope you like it.

Here goes:

I call you "idiot", and bat

my eyes at you, you call me "prat."

You watch me close from up on top

I beg you, "Please, oh please don't stop."

My hands are clenched, My eyes roll back

You've got the skill, you've got the knack

I rake your back, I grab your bum

To pull you deep, I'll make you cum

You lift me up, I'm in your lap

You read my body like a map

I'm sitting on the only throne

I need, I want, I start to moan

You thrust, I scream, as me you fuck

Again I gasp and thank my luck

'Cause though we bickered from the start

I loved you, caught you, won your heart

I feel you pulsing deep inside,

As rocking, on your cock I ride

You gasp as I rock one more time

I feel you shoot, it's so sublime

I look at you from up above,

We smile, we kiss, we've proved our love

Signed:

Your servant in bed if not in life,

Arthur, Crown Prince of Camelot

P.S. This poem's much better than Morgana's. Hers didn't even rhyme!

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The Royal Librarian sat the letter back down on the desk, carefully folding it, trying not to damage the seal further. He then placed the contents in the container, and closed it.

He sighed and slipped off his chair, dead before he hit the floor.

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